I think I’m going crazy.
Not in the screaming, yelling, foaming at the mouth crazy, but in a quiet way.
I can no longer trust my self, can no longer trust how I feel, (if I feel), how I think, or how I act.
Am I really feeling this way, or am I feeling that I should feel this way?
It scares me and I wonder if it’s not me pulling the plugs mentally.
Am I suicidal? Â I don’t know. Â I don’t want to die. But I no longer want to live.
Is this what it means to live? Â To just barely get from one crisis to another, only to have everything you build fall down around you?
I don’t love you. Â Or at least. Â I don’t think I do.
How could I expect you to understand, when you turn a blind eye to my pain, and turn a deaf ear to my cries? Â You do just enough to say “I tried.” And then turn away, back to your own ego-centric world.
I want to paint my room with blood. Â To run my blade across my wrists and to write out the truths of my world upon the white surface.
Heh, that’s funny.
As if I know the truth.
I go to the doctor again today. Â Go to try to muddle my way through my oily thoughts, trying to find the one or two bits of actuality in them.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
My self is already dying.
Why would it make a difference if I killed the body too?